


Fire Without A Spark

by RedTeamShark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Soft Dom Clint Barton, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: “Good boy.”Normally those words are ones he says to Clint, soft praise that the other man melts for. Normally Bucky’s the one whispering them, searing them into Clint’s skin with kisses and gentle touches. The two words don’t usually make Bucky hot and shivery, but hearing them in his ear over the phone…
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73
Collections: After Dark Presents Nutvember 2020





	Fire Without A Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Title Inspo: Dancing In The Dark by Bruce Springsteen

Steve couldn’t get drunk, but Bucky could. He could get sloppy drunk, get deposited at Clint’s apartment after the bar closed by an eye-rolling, sighing Steve, and crawl into bed with his boyfriend, rut against his thigh and whine about wanting to get off to the sound of his voice.

That’s what Clint tells him in the morning, anyways.

“Bullshit,” Bucky insists despite the hangover throbbing in his skull. “You’re making stuff up.”

“Why would I?” Clint grins, ducks out of the way of the pillow thrown at him, and rejoins Bucky on the bed. He passes over a cup of coffee, kissing his temple lightly. “But hey, drunk mumbling isn’t a meaningful discussion, so once you’re no longer hungover, we can talk about it again.”

Or they can drop it forever, which he knows Clint will do without a second thought. Because dammit, somehow despite everything, Bucky finally has something _good_ in his life with Clint. Sure, he has Steve, he’ll always have Steve, but there’s a rift between them that hadn’t existed before 1941. An unspoken _I wish you were the old you_ on both sides that they’re both too stubborn to deal with. There is no _old you_ with Clint, the archer hadn’t known a different Bucky that would never be back--hell, apparently he hadn’t even read the bullshit in the history books, by his own admission. 

He gives himself two days to sort it out in his own head, then brings his ideas to Clint, talking over Chinese take-out about what he thinks he wants and how they can do it.

Clint grins, settles a hand on his knee and squeezes, and promises to make it good.

* * *

He’s pacing like a girl waiting on her date, phone in one hand, curtains open and lights on in the bedroom. Certainly not his preferred way to be home--Bucky likes to hang out in the living room, likes to keep the lights low and the curtains drawn--but it’s easier to be ready. He’s eaten, and showered, and worked himself open with two fingers in the privacy of his bathroom, just in case Clint wants him to do that (Clint wouldn’t tell him to do that, but he might want to do it of his own accord and Clint might go along if he starts, so better to be ready).

“Oh my god,” Bucky mutters, giving his phone another impatient glance, like he might have somehow missed the obnoxious song and vibrating that accompany a call from Clint. “Just _call_ already.”

Of course, not knowing is part of the fun. Letting the anticipation build, letting himself climb higher and higher on the possibility. It surges in his veins, buzzes like adrenaline and with no outlet for it Bucky finds himself flopping into bed and draping one arm over his face.

It’s that moment that his phone begins to buzz in his hand, blatting out a tinny version of an awful song that Clint insists is good. Bucky swipes to answer with barely a glance, putting the phone to his ear. “ _Finally_.”

“Impatient much?” Clint laughs on the other end, before his voice goes low, almost a growl. “You didn’t start without me, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Good boy.”

Normally those words are ones he says to Clint, soft praise that the other man melts for. Normally Bucky’s the one whispering them, searing them into Clint’s skin with kisses and gentle touches. The two words don’t usually make Bucky hot and shivery, but hearing them in his ear over the phone… “I don’t think I’d last long enough to make this fun, if I’d already started.”

“I have ways of handling that. For now…” Clint hums softly. “It might be easier if you put me on speaker and put the phone next to you. Keep both hands free.”

“Both hands, huh?” He taps a few buttons, drops his phone beside him and settles more comfortably against the pillows. One of his hands settles onto his stomach, inching towards the hem of his shirt.

“I didn’t tell you to get undressed yet.” The words don’t leave room for argument and Bucky freezes, breathing a little sharper. Clint continues before he can ask. “I want you to touch yourself over your clothes, first. Just run your hands over your body, get familiar.”

Open curtains, of course, being watched is part of the fantasy, but--holy shit, the way it makes his stomach twist and flip is something he’s going to have to ask about later. Bucky closes his eyes, lets his hands drift along the material of his t-shirt slowly, traces his nipples and then dips down, over his hips and thighs. He drags back up, feeling and hearing the scrape of his fingers on denim, and he lets out a low whimper as his fingertips hook under the hem of his shirt, just brush the skin of his stomach. “Clint…”

“You’re begging already? Beautiful.” Oh, that word makes something warm and good pulse through him. “I guess I can let you take your shirt off. Just the shirt, though.”

Fuck, when did he get so warm? He sits up long enough to pull his shirt off, brushing his hair back from his face before lying down again. Without even looking he knows he’s flushed all down his front, bright pink skin over his heaving chest. Bucky sets one hand low on his stomach, drags it upwards to Clint’s hum of approval on the phone. He strokes his nipples, pinches lightly and groans low in the back of his throat. Eases his fingertips along his chest, over the muscles and scars, and down to his stomach. Clint’s done this for him before, these slow, light touches that almost tickle, that leave him squirming and panting and make both of them start laughing, but this--this is different. His own hands on his skin, alone in the room but not alone with his head… Bucky exhales and feels his stomach dip with it, a pleasant chill racing up his spine.

“That’s perfect, babe,” Clint breathes over the phone, voice a little rougher, a little more breathless. Bucky’s sure he wouldn’t sound much better if he could even string two words together. “You feel it, huh? Like when I touch you… like when you’re getting dressed after a shower, still wet and in just a towel, and I can’t help but come put my hands on you…”

Bucky shivers again, his mind flashing back to not too long ago, strong arms wrapping around him from behind, fingers dipping into the open waist of his jeans as a voice whispered in his ear _You look so good like this_. Clint over his shoulder, visible in the mirror, eyes on his face and hand on his cock, kissing his neck and stroking him off.

“Missed your chance,” Bucky murmurs, tilting his head towards the phone like Clint’s going to magically appear behind him and suck hickeys into his neck if he exposes it. “I took a shower earlier.”

“You’ll take another one soon enough. You wanna take your pants off?”

He hums, unbuttons his jeans and pulls the zipper down, just letting his fingers brush against the front of his boxers. “With the curtains open? Sounds like I’m inviting someone to watch me,” he teases, thumbs hooking into his waistband, back arching off the bed as he starts to push his pants down.

“Maybe you are. Maybe there’s someone watching you right now, going crazy because he can look but he can’t touch.” Over the phone he can hear a shift and a shuffle of fabric, and Bucky’s breath hitches.

“Are you--”

“Don’t worry about what I’m doing,” Clint cuts him off. “This is all about you, babe.”

Bucky kicks his pants off the end of the bed, tilting his head towards the window. He can see pinpricks of light through it, other windows in other buildings that are lit up from within. He wonders, pulse racing faster, if anyone _is_ watching him. All it takes is a glance out the window at the right angle and--

His cock twitches in his boxers, heat flushing through him. Someone’s watching, at least one person with eyes locked on him, the star of the show. His fingertips drift over his bared thighs, legs spreading just a little wider. He slides his palms up, shifts the fabric against his cock with just enough friction to tease himself.

On the phone, he can hear Clint’s breath hitch, so he does it again, a slow drag of his hands from his thighs upwards, continuing along his stomach and to his chest. He drags downward again, catches the waistband of his boxers and teases them down before letting them snap back into place, rubbing his hands between his thighs slowly. The fabric is visibly tented, his cock twitching on occasion as he touches an extra sensitive bit of skin.

“Fuck, Clint…” Bucky whispers, eyes slipping closed. It’s easy to imagine his boyfriend’s hands on him, the teasing touches being delivered by warm, calloused fingers, the brush of lips against his ear as Clint whispers filthy things to him.

“God, you look fucking good. You want a hand on your cock, Bucky?”

The noise that escapes him is little more than a strangled whimper, but it’s affirmative. He nods slightly, lets his fingers skate up and hover just over his covered erection.

“Nice and easy, babe. Like I’d do it.”

His teeth sink into his lip, hand cupping himself through the fabric, his palm grinding lightly against the head of his cock. He can feel the heat pulsing off himself, the moisture gathering at the tip. Bucky squeezes oh-so-gently, the relief of pressure quickly outweighed by the need for more. “Clint… please, please let me…”

The voice over the phone shushes him gently. “Not yet… fuck, you look so good, all flushed and needy. What’re you thinking about that’s got you all hot and bothered?”

Bucky gives himself one more light squeeze before he trails his hand down again, digs his fingers into his thigh. “You,” he gasps out, a shiver rushing through him. “Thinking about--about how you do this to me.”

“Good answer. You know how to make me happy, huh?” God, that question better be rhetorical. Bucky lets out a low whine of agreement. “Yeah, you do. You’re so good to me, Bucky. Take your boxers off, show me how hard you are.”

The slow drag of friction that comes with taking off his boxers it like torture. Cool air from the room rushes over his flushed skin and he whines, angling himself slightly more towards the window, legs open. He has nothing to hide and even if he did--Clint wants to see it. 

“Gorgeous. God, you’re so perfect, Bucky.” Clint’s breathing is getting rougher, his words choking between uneven, panting breaths. “Do like what you were doing before for me, hands all up and down your body. Love watching the way you touch yourself.”

He knows Clint’s watching him, has known from the beginning, but there’s something about it… something about how _blatant_ it is… Bucky’s cock twitches and he moans quietly, fingertips teasing over his skin, lighting up nerves all along his body. He wants so badly to be touched, not by his own hands but by Clint’s, to feel a mouth on him, to let fingers thread into his hair and pull. His hand slips into his hair, tugs until his eyes roll back, until his lips part in a little gasp. “Want you,” he hisses out, heels digging into the mattress for a moment as his back arches. “Want you so bad, Clint.”

Clint hums on the phone, quiet for a moment. When he speaks again his voice is lower, rougher, the bite of a command in it. “Both hands on the wall, Bucky. Right now.”

It hits him like the most pleasant punch in the gut, a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, his hands planting on the wall and body twitching into the missing contact. Bucky whines softly, turning his head towards the phone, straining to catch any sound over the line. “Please…”

“Easy, babe, easy now… Give yourself a minute to calm down, yeah?” It sounds like Clint needs a minute, too, and if he wasn’t so lost in his own sea of bliss, Bucky would point that out. They stay quiet over the phone, listening to each other breathe, before Clint clicks his tongue. “Okay. One hand, you can touch your cock.”

As much as he wants to wrap his fingers around himself and stroke, Bucky keeps it slow. He skates his fingertips down his body, strokes along his length with just one. Thumbs over the head and smears the leaking precum along his length. Bucky allows himself one brief, full squeeze before he goes back to teasing, feeling the pulse of blood under his skin.

“Tell me how it feels,” Clint instructs him over the phone. His words are softer now, no bite of command to them, but they might as well be an order.

Taking a shaking breath, he tries to put words to the sensation. “It’s warm,” Bucky starts, swallowing the cry that wants to leave him when he dips his fingers lower for a moment. “No, it’s--fuck, it’s hot, it’s like all my blood is right there, like everything else is numb and… and fuzzy. Doesn’t matter. Just wanna touch my cock and hear your voice, Clint.”

“You can have one of those things,” Clint decides, humming in consideration. “Hands off, Bucky, just listen to me…” His whine of frustration hardly matters, because Clint keeps talking. “You remember last week, on the couch?” God, does he: Clint had knelt before him, spent the better part of an hour using his mouth to tease Bucky to almost painful arousal, had refused to finish the job until Bucky was begging. He whimpers at the thought, his eyes squeezing shut. It’d been torture, but it’d been heavenly. “I’m not there to stop you this time, but you’re going to be a good boy for me, aren’t you? Only going to touch yourself when and how I tell you.”

“Yes--yes, anything, Clint, anything you say.”

A few touches and a few filthy words should not get him this close to the edge, this desperate, but then again, it’s _Clint’s_ words, it’s _Clint_ telling him when and how to touch. Bucky’s skeptical of a lot of things, but when it comes to his boyfriend, he’s proud to concede that he’s a blind fool. He’ll follow Clint into hell for a smile and a hand in his.

“So good for me. How about your play with your nipples some more? No need to be selfish, right?”

He moves his hands to his chest, thumbs over his nipples and feels the sensation course through every nerve, every inch of him inside and out. His cock twitches and Bucky does it again, bites down on his lip to try to keep in his whine.

“Don’t keep your noises in,” Clint commands, making him gasp, mouth falling open. “That’s better. I want to hear you.”

“Clint…” He pinches down on his nipples, twists and moans, his body writhing on the bed. The sheets are a mess around him, blankets kicked aside and pillows tossed haphazardly. It looks like they’ve already fucked, truthfully, and he can’t help but wonder what any curious eyes would see. Someone who already had a partner with them tonight, but is so desperate and needy they take on their own pleasure in a bed still smelling like sex? The eyes on him, real and imagined, can surely tell that he’s breathless between moans, that his voice is pitching higher and higher as he gets close without even touching his cock.

The humming is like a live wire to his brain, hands dropping aside even before Clint speaks, even before he registers the noise. Bucky lets out a keening whine of desperation, body rocking hard enough to smack the headboard into the wall. “ _Clint_.”

“Oh, I know, babe, I know. You’re so close. You look so good like that, but I think you can wait longer.” Clint sure as hell sounds like he’s not waiting, his words hitching, the shuffling noises more distinct now. Bucky closes his eyes, tries to picture his boyfriend in a similarly compromised position. Kneeling by an open window, maybe, one eye to his scope trained on Bucky in their bed, his shirt rucked up and pants pushed down so he can stroke himself off. Or something more high tech, cameras and monitors, so that he can watch from multiple angles. Maybe the open curtains are to let others have a view, to let wandering eyes see what they can never touch. Bucky shivers.

“You have thirty seconds to play with your cock for me,” Clint says abruptly, and then he starts counting.

Bucky’s hand flies to his dick, fingers wrapping around it and stroking, aware of every ticking second as he gets closer and closer. He squeezes rhythmically on the upstroke, cries out his growing pleasure almost loud enough to drown out the ticking clock, and then, just as he’s _there_ \--

“Stop,” Clint orders, and Bucky’s hand falls away, his whine loud, his body rocking up into the missing contact.

“N-no fair, you said--”

“I changed my mind. Twenty was enough time.” Clint laughs a little, before he moans softly. “And I like how your face looks when you’re right on the edge like that. Wanna see it more than once tonight. Breathe for me, babe, let’s calm down a little.”

Bucky could point out that Clint doesn’t sound like _he’s_ calming down, the little shit, but… He inhales slowly and exhales, pushes air from his lungs and thoughts from his head. His thighs still flex, ass lifting off the bed as he still tries to fuck into friction that isn’t there, but after a minute it stops. He’s still hard, still desperate, but his heart isn’t pounding quite as loudly in his ears. Clint might not even be able to hear it over the phone.

“There’s my good boy… My--mmm…--beautiful Bucky… You’re so good for me, aren’t you?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m good for you…” Bucky agrees, his eyelids growing heavy. He’s not sleepy, not exactly, far too turned on to be sleepy, but this… this is nice. This is the sort of treatment he could get used to.

“The best for me. You wanna touch your cock again?”

“Do you want me to?” Bucky’s breath hitches as soon as he speaks the words, and he hears the low growl of Clint’s approval over the phone.

“Yeah, Bucky, I want you to. Touch yourself for me. Show me how good you are.”

He doesn’t start with his cock. Bucky lets his hands return to his body slowly, eases them along his skin in light brushes, just like he’d started when he was still clothed. He strokes and pinches his nipples, moves down to his stomach and back up. His hands trace over his thighs, push his legs apart and dip between them, just barely brush his balls--throbbing, tensed with an orgasm held at bay only by Clint’s command. He bends his knees up and spreads his legs a little wider, teases a finger against his hole. He’d do it if Clint told him to, he’d grab the lube and finger himself open, get off on that or add in one of the toys they own, but Clint won’t tell him to do it and that emboldens him more than anything. Bucky carefully trails his finger up his cock, moistens the tip of it with the precum still leaking from him, and slides back down. He’s loose and lax there despite the tension of an impending orgasm, finds it easy enough to tease a single finger just inside his rim and rock into the minute stretch.

“Want you to fuck me one day,” Bucky whispers, biting his lip for a moment as he pushes his finger just a little deeper. “Want you to finger me and put your cock inside me and just--fuck, Clint, just take me apart from the inside. Put me back together however you like me best.”

“One day,” Clint agrees softly, his words almost a sigh. “Don’t hurt yourself, Bucky, if you’re gonna finger yourself get the lube out of my top drawer.”

That requires moving and Bucky whines, but he pulls his finger away. Clint’s right, if he pushes any further he’ll hurt himself. Precum isn’t a replacement for lube and while he _feels_ loose and lax and ready to take it, adding more or going deeper is going to hurt dry. Bucky throws his head back against the pillow in frustration, instead trailing his fingers up his cock before wrapping his hand around himself.

“You wanna finish, Bucky?” Clint asks quietly, the rough growl of command gone from his voice, replaced with a smooth, almost purring quality. “You wanna get off for me, get off knowing I’m watching you, letting you?”

“Yeah, I--yeah, please, can I?”

“Maybe.” Clint sing-songs the word and Bucky strokes himself slowly, well aware of just how close to the edge he is. “Or maybe I’ll make you wait until I’m there,” Clint continues, his voice dropping lower. “Maybe I’ll keep teasing you until I get home… Keep you right on the edge… Come into the room and watch for a while… Make you watch me get off--” His breath catches and Bucky’s definitely not the only one stroking himself faster at that idea “--until you’re begging me. Until you’re rolling over and presenting for me, asking me to fuck you, finger you, eat you out. Let you rut against the sheets or my leg or maybe I’ll just have you kneel on the floor and hump a pillow.”

Bucky lets out a louder whine and Clint laughs softly. “Oh, I think you like that one. Kneel on the floor in front of me and put a pillow between your legs, let you hump it while you suck me off. I still won’t tell you that you can cum, though. You’ll be so hard, so wet, so close and I’ll say _no_. And you know what you’ll do?”

“What?” Bucky pants out, his hips rocking into his hand, his self-control unraveling faster and faster. He’s so close, he’s _right there_ , but this idea, this fantasy, he needs to know how it ends.

“You’ll stop. Just like you’re going to stop--” _Oh, god, please don’t say it_ , he begs internally, voicing the fear as a choked whimper “-- _right now_.”

His whole body jerks and twists, his hands fisting in the sheets. Bucky screams, unable to keep it in, his cock throbbing. He thrashes on the bed, head swimming with pleasure, mind blank and foggy and he doesn’t realize he’s whimpering until he starts to come down. He’s still hard, painfully so, his cock twitching against his stomach with every ragged breath. Clint’s moaning on the phone, whispering about how fucking beautiful he is when he loses control, and Bucky digs his fingers deeper into the sheets.

“You… you bastard,” he pants out, rocking his hips, thrusting up into nothing. “You just came, didn’t you?”

“Never said I couldn’t,” Clint counters lazily, voice soft and breathless. “Just that you wanted me to tell you when _you_ could.”

He’s sorely tempted to hang up the phone and jerk off, but Clint makes a small, sharp noise and Bucky goes still. “You’re so good for me, Bucky,” he whispers, sounding as satisfied as the cat that got the canary. “So _fucking good_. Just one more, okay? You can hold on for one more, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees before he can think, flexes his hands in the sheets and moves to get more comfortable. “One more. Just one.”

“Take a little time, breathe, relax. Come down from the edge.”

Bucky closes his eyes, breathes slow and easy, tilts his head towards his phone. “You know what kinda sucks about this?”

“What’s that?”

“Gotta wait for you to get home afterwards.”

There’s a pause, one that’s almost too long, before Clint laughs softly. “Yeah, that does suck. Sorry, babe, we should have planned better. How’re you feeling?”

“M’good, just… just want you here…” He’s fuzzy again, his body starting to feel detached from him. Bucky props himself up on one elbow, looking out the window and scanning the building across the street. “You think anyone but you is watching me?”

“If they know what’s good for them, they’re not. You’re mine.” The possessive words send pleasant shivers up his spine, even if the tone is gentle. Bucky lies down again slowly, rests a hand on his stomach and looks at the ceiling.

He’s more aware of himself when Clint instructs him to start touching again, moves his hands gently over his skin. He slowly wraps one hand around his cock, feeling it pulse with his rapid heartbeat before he begins to stroke at Clint’s command.

“That’s it, babe, yeah, you’re so good for me… so gorgeous… just like that, Bucky, nice and slow… You’re almost there, this time I won’t stop you.”

Bucky’s whole life has pinpointed down to just the voice in his ear and the hand on his cock. He starts moving faster when Clint tells him to, the changing sound of his boyfriend’s voice lost.

It’s when he’s there, when he’s _right there_ , that Clint’s words come into focus again. “Open your eyes, Bucky.”

He cracks one eye open, startles to see Clint at the end of the bed. The other man crawls onto the mattress with him, leans down and takes his cock into the wet, inviting heat of his mouth, and Bucky doesn’t even get the breath to scream before he’s over the edge.

The build of pleasure, what feels like an eternity of denying himself, crashes down all at once, sweeps him away like a tidal wave. He can feel Clint swallowing around his cock, drinking down what he has, just like he can feel the hand that grips his and holds on for dear life, and then he’s gone, dragged away by overwhelming, overdue, overwrought pleasure.

It takes him a long time to open his eyes again, a long time to start feeling his body again. Bits and pieces of reality come back slowly: a hand stroking his hair, a voice in his ear, a warm body holding him close. Bucky tilts his head up, bumps into Clint’s chin and cracks his eyes open just enough to search out his boyfriend’s lips. He presses an exhausted kiss there, dropping back onto the bed with the content sigh.

“That was good,” Bucky mumbles, the words slurred on his uncoordinated tongue. “You’re good, Clint.”

He drifts into easy sleep, a smile curling his mouth as he feels lips press one last _good boy_ into his temple.

Maybe he should get drunk more often.


End file.
